


Fire and Touch (1/1)

by padawanhilary



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Massage, Short & Sweet, Sweet Zevran Arainai
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 22:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17907254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padawanhilary/pseuds/padawanhilary
Summary: “The Warden needs a massage. Zevran offers to help, anticipating Fun Times… then finds himself at a loss when he does too good a job and finds the Warden gently snoring.”





	Fire and Touch (1/1)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheRareFereldanCatLord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRareFereldanCatLord/gifts).



> Notes: I asked for fluffy plot bunnies; I got this. Prompted by [TheRareFereldenCatLord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRareFereldanCatLord/pseuds/TheRareFereldanCatLord).
> 
> Beta by the fabulous [CuriousThimble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuriousThimble/pseuds/CuriousThimble)
> 
> Status: Complete

“Ugh.” There was a peculiar tone to Nesila’s voice, and Zevran recognized it in the grunt. It was fatigue, possibly soreness. The Warden sat cross-legged on her bedroll by the fire, brow slightly furrowed. She rolled her shoulder almost unconsciously - definitely soreness. It must be the new bow.

Morrigan had expertly trapped several hares for supper, and they were filleted and skewered, roasting over the fire.The fat dripped onto the burning wood in pats and hisses, giving off a mouthwatering scent. Nesila had taken to cooking as a way to distract herself from the constant presence of the others.Though she had come to care for them, she missed her people keenly, and she missed her solitude. 

Something moved at the corner of her eye: Alistair, holding up a wineskin. With a tired, wordless gesture, she declined the offer. 

That last suited Zevran just fine - though he wouldn’t be forced to admit it aloud. He’d noticed Alistair’s obvious hope for her affection begin to grow, even after the one night Zevran had shared with her. Perhaps the senior Grey Warden had noticed that in spite of their tryst, Nesila showed no more interest for Zevran than she had before. Perhaps he even assumed nothing had happened at all.

That, too, was fine with the elf. Alistair was a capable fighter and a good comrade, but Zevran found himself intensely uncomfortable at the thought of him with Nesila - and especially at the thought of him redoubling his efforts because Zevran had shared time with her. That was something that he did not much care for, but there it was. When he looked at her, he wanted to trace the tattoos on her tanned cheekbones with kisses. He wanted to play his hands through her hair and sink into her gaze. What had she done to him that he was thinking these unsettling, uncharacteristic thoughts? He was no wide-eyed boy, fawning over a woman because she had paid him a kindness. Where had his edge gone?

For goodness’ sake, it had, indeed, been only one evening - not even the entire night. Nesila had come to him, much to his surprise and delight, and taken her pleasure at long length. There had been no fear in her, no modesty despite the past that he wished he could take from her. Those atrocities had left her drawn and skittish at certain times, staunch and fierce at others, but on that night, she’d been a glorious fire: attentive and demanding, aware of herself and the flames of desire between them. Oh, and it had felt delicious to be consumed by such a blaze. He hadn't realized how badly he’d needed it. 

Then, just as quickly as she’d appeared, she was gone, and the memory of her touch left in him a slow ache that had been smoldering for weeks now. She hadn't even stayed long enough to sleep, so he’d buried it deep when it appeared she wanted no more of him. 

Still, it did not appear that she wanted any of Alistair, either, and at that, Zevran took heart.

He approached her, attempting a casual attitude. When she glanced up at him, he smiled and bowed his head. “We suffer many injuries in the Crows, as you can imagine,” he began, his tone light and friendly. “We are not all healers, but we all must be adept at some of the healing arts.”

Nesila glanced up at him with a touch of wariness. “Oh?” Offering up a small murmur of thanks to Andruil, she took a skewer from the fire and tried to pluck a bit of meat from it, testing it with a bowstring-calloused fingertip and then hissing softly. “What healing arts would those be?” She waved the skewer slowly to cool it. “I've never seen you use any - has Wynne taught you something new?” It made her wonder - well, not really - what he was actually after.

Zevran shook his head, then hesitated a moment, giving Nesila time to begin her meal. The fire cast a golden glow onto her ginger hair. It lit her eyes, and all he wanted in that moment was to feel its warmth against her skin. 

He was in so much trouble. 

He dared to sit next to her, though not too near. When the meat was just cool enough, Nesila ate with efficient vigor. It was how she handled most things: without ado of any kind. Her speech and her actions were always plain, though she was anything but. She was a complicated woman, mysterious, strong, and those _lips_ -

 _Focus,_ he admonished himself.

“I am unsure that Wynne can teach anything I have the ability to learn,” he explained, “but I do have a particularly pleasant method, if you would indulge me - or if you would like to be indulged, rather.” 

Nesila glanced at him sidelong with her clear green eyes. “Pleasant?” she asked. Her gaze was wary, but she was intrigued. Few enough things were pleasant these days. 

With one marked exception. 

“It begins with a tea.” Zevran watched her eyes, gauging her reaction carefully. “It is made with white flowers - native to Antiva, of course - and honey. Once you have consumed it, you lie down -” He stopped immediately as he felt her withdraw, her entire demeanor shuttering at once. 

He reached a hand out with care. He did not touch her, only made a staying gesture. “You misunderstand,” he said gently. “There are points across the shoulders and along the spine that release tension. I simply massage them to create that effect.” 

“It sounds like you’re trying to get my tunic off,” Nesila pointed out. 

“That is… not necessary,” he admitted with evident reluctance, “though it is much more relaxing that way. Unless one has magic at his command, which,” Zevran chuckled, “as you know, I do not. Not that kind, at least. At any rate, touch is a very important part of the healing process.”

Musing on that, Nesila finished her rabbit and tossed the skewer into the fire. “I am a little sore,” she admitted.

“I can see it.” Zevran reached toward her again, and when she did not pull away, he covered the spot where her shoulder met her neck with his hand. “Here, yes?” 

She nodded, eyes locked with his. Had she managed to forget how good, how skilled his touch had been? No, not for a moment. She’d simply pushed the memory down as hard as she could. This was not the time, and she was not the woman, for a romantic fling. 

What he offered, however, did sound… luxurious.

“What does the tea do?” 

It took great effort for him to take his hand away from her. “It is merely fragrant and calming. Those who drink it regularly are known to say that the scent of it alone eases pain.” He shrugged one shoulder. “A magical herb, or a trick of the mind? Who is to say?” 

“And who really cares?” she murmured. “All right, Zevran. It would be nice to have this hitch gone.” She lifted her shoulder again with another soft grunt. 

“I will be right back.” His calm tone belied his eagerness. 

Nesila had taken up her longbow and was oiling it by the time he returned. Zevran admired her dedication to her weaponry, but he said lightly, “You, Nesila, must learn to stop working.” He began laying out his implements from an ornately decorated wooden box: a thick piece of leather, a carved stone pot that with a flat stick of wood tied to it, a linen pouch, a tiny kettle and matching cup glazed in a deep sunset orange, and a little golden ball covered in tiny holes. 

“I worked for a time as a runner and clerk for an herb shop in Rialto. It enabled me to keep an eye on a rival assassin, and I befriended the apothecary. He instructed me in the finer points of formal service.” Zevran’s eyes took on a distant look, he smirked, and then he glanced over at Nesila. “Tea service,” he clarified deliberately. 

In spite of herself, she smiled. “Just that, hm?” 

“Yes.” That little smile warmed him more than closeness to the campfire ever could. Zevran poured water into the kettle and set it on the stones at the edge, carefully adjusting it so that it would not fall but would still get some heat. Then he nudged a catch on the side of the ball to let it fall open. This surprised her a bit; she’d never seen such a contraption. She watched as he poured flowers and leaves into it from the little sack made of linen. The stone pot was stoppered with a thick piece of cork, and he pried that loose very gently. 

“What is that?” she asked him. 

“Honey. It is almost time to replenish my store.” He used the stick to scoop a bit out, comb and all. In it went, right on top of the white and green flowers, and then he snapped the ball closed again. 

“That is nothing like how we made tea at home,” she told him. He took silent notice that she had forgotten about her longbow.

“This, my apothecary friend had commissioned for me especially.” Zevran held the ball out so that she could examine it. She could see now that the holes were arranged in minuscule patterns, like swirling clouds of rose petals. “You see, he was the one the assassin wanted, and the Crows needed his expertise for a particular blend of poisons. It was quite a mutually beneficial arrangement, as I am sure you can imagine.” He dropped the ball into the kettle and decided that Nesila’s eyes on him felt better than the spreading heat of good wine. He looked over at her, and she was watching his hands - but when their eyes met, the openness in her face made him yearn to kiss her. Zevran could see that she wanted him but was not yet ready to say it, so he smiled and lowered his eyes to the kettle again. He dropped the ball into the opening at the top and closed it.

After a moment or two, the water came to a low, rolling simmer, and Zevran left it a bit longer before gripping the handle with the leather piece and pulling it from the fire. He immediately poured the tea into the cup and, while the kettle cooled, began bundling up his things again. 

“You’re not having any?” she asked quietly. 

“No, my dear Warden. This is for you.” He smiled again, eyes down, still putting his tea makings away. “However… if you’d like to learn, you might perhaps serve me in the same fashion someday. I do seem to get shot at a lot.”

In the comforting glow of the campfire, they did not immediately notice that everyone else had stolen away to their own tents and pallets. They two sat alone with the moon, the flickering warmth, and a cup of tea between them. 

When it was cool enough to touch, Zevran lifted it to his nose. He closed his eyes and drew the tiniest drop between his lips to test it, and she could see that in his mind, he’d gone straight back to that little shop where he’d learned to make it. Suddenly she wanted that, too - something to hold onto that wasn’t the alienage. 

“I _would_ like to learn,” she told him at once. 

His smile was very bright. “Then you shall. But not tonight. Tonight, you are going to drink this,” and he pressed the cup into her hands, “and I am going to fix this.” He cupped her shoulder again, hand still hot from the cup, and the sensation sent an electric shiver down her spine. 

Why had she been avoiding this?

The tea was delicious. The steam carried a lush scent of verdant fields and something that teased of warmer lands. The sweetness was just perfect, more of an essence rather than a taste, and her brow furrowed as she willed herself to memorize every precious detail. The fire was to her left, and she knelt on the ground, knees in the sandy earth. She felt heat and coolness over her body, the faintest breeze, the cup comfortably warm in her palms, and the perfume of the steam made her feel…

...happy.

When she opened her eyes, Zevran was smiling. “Drink,” he ordered, but his voice was tender. Sweet. Not the shameless flirt she’d allowed to live, much to everyone’s dismay. Not the charming assassin with a blade in every pocket. 

Zevran.

So she drank. Nesila let the tea warm her from the inside now, and she could feel herself relaxing. It wasn’t like a tavern drink. There was no loss of her own control, no wanting to do things she wouldn’t normally, just a sweet, slow sensation of peace in her blood. 

When he could see that she had finished, he took the cup from her hands. “Your tent?” he offered. There was the tiniest flicker in her eyes - those were, after all, laden words. “Just the massage,” he promised. “Nothing more.” 

Nesila found it a struggle to decide if that was reassuring or disappointing. “Very well.” She led the way, and once at the opening, asked, “Should I remove my tunic?” 

“That is up to you.” 

She left it on and lay down on her pallet, fists balled under her shoulders to protect herself from being shoved uncomfortably into the ground. This is how Valendrian taught her to position herself when the healers had to shift her bones after an injury. 

“Ah,” Zevran nodded, recognizing the position. “You had a good teacher.” 

“My hahren,” she said, her voice slightly muffled against the padding of her pallet. 

“Then he - or she - did well. I am going to touch you now,” he warned gently. “I shall begin at the small of your back. This is acceptable, yes?” 

She nodded, so Zevran straddled her thighs. When she showed no discomfort at his position, he settled down and placed his fingertips on her back, thumbs to either side of the base of her spine. The tunic she wore was thin leather, but he could tell as he began to dig into the muscle that it might impede his work a bit. Still, it had been her decision, and to argue that would be rude.

His touch was blunted through her tunic, but still so, so good. Nesila had expected it to hurt a bit as he found knots or kinks, but he wasn't throwing himself at it with all of his power to muscle out the bad spots as some tended to do. There was balance and tenderness in the way he was handling her. 

_Not just you,_ she told herself. _You’re not the only one he’s done this for._ It gave her an odd sense of… not disquiet, but perhaps a little disappointment, as ridiculous as that was. Neither of them was a virgin - he’d talked at length of his own exploits, while her own experience had been limited to a couple of locals who didn't mind playing with a young woman already betrothed. She was a quick study, though, and knew what felt good. Both of her men started to refuse her after the second or third time, though. Apparently, she knew herself too well. That made them nervous. 

Zevran was working his way up with care and slowness. He was at the middle of her back, and it felt nice, but the leather was rubbing wrong. “Stop,” she said, and when he did, she added, “I don’t mean ‘stop’ altogether.” She wiggled under him, and he shifted to one side. Once he was off her, she braced herself up enough to take off her tunic. Naked from the waist up and displaying her usual lack of modesty, she rolled the tunic into a pillow for her head and then settled back down again in the same position. 

She noticed that Zevran kept his eyes down as she did so, and it sparked something unnameable in her. She found that she deeply appreciated this respect he was giving - no, more than that. It settled deep in her belly, like the warmth of the tea. Nesila knew he wanted her - she’d seen the watchful way he paid attention to her, as well as the way he gazed with some resentment at Alistair’s gawky attempts at friendly affection. 

_But this was not the time, and she was not the woman, for a romantic fling._

__The sight of her so comfortable in her nudity stoked the ember that Zevran had tried so hard to smother. “You are a singular woman,” he said before he realized he had words to offer._ _

__Nesila did not have a good response for that. A thank-you seemed pale beside the compliment, and “I know” seemed arrogant (though she did know it). Finally, she murmured, “I appreciate that.”_ _

__Zevran swung his leg back over hers and settled down again. “Shall I begin again, or continue on where I left off?”_ _

__“Begin again, please?” she requested softly. Now that her head was pillowed and the tunic was out of the way, she wanted the full sensation of his touch. His weight on the backs of her thighs was oddly comforting. Nesila felt - she almost dared not think it - safe._ _

__“With pleasure,” he murmured. Her skin was warm silk under his fingertips, and he made himself fully concentrate on the act of loosening her muscles. The last thing Zevran wanted to do was display arousal now that she was truly relaxing._ _

__“I learned this from a woman in Antiva City,” he said, by way of distracting himself. “She was an absolute mistress of touch. She had oils that hailed, so she said, from Seheron itself, and her specialty was a particular Rivaini motion that is quite pleasurable.” He tried to mimic it for her; it was a twist of the heel of the hand, followed by a drag of fingertips over a spot in the middle of her spine. Even as he realized his was a pale imitation of the original gestures, he heard a happy little moan escape her throat. “Ah, good,” he sighed, pleased. “I am not too terrible at it.”_ _

__As he continued his labor of love, Nesila asked, “Were you together?”_ _

__He was glad she could not turn to look at him, for the question made him flush. Zevran Arainai, master assassin and lover of many, blushing like a happy little boy out of school because she'd asked about a woman. He covered with a quiet laugh. “Of course you are jealous, my darling Grey Warden, of the lively skill and prowess we two must have shared - alas, she was not for me. Or any man.”_ _

__He could have sworn he felt her relax even further at that._ _

__Zevran’s hands had reached the place between her shoulder blades. “This is where we usually find the problem.” He settled himself more firmly and began to work his thumbs up toward the left shoulder._ _

__“You've done this - ah - a lot?” Nesila asked._ _

__“Enough,” he shrugged. “We Crows were seldom in a position to seek healers, and even if we could afford the visibility, we could not afford the time. Healers are so fussy, with their bed rest and their orders, such as ‘stop moving your arm that way.’ How am I to stab someone if I cannot move my arm that way?”_ _

__Her soft, unexpected chuckle brought him instant bliss, and then his fingertips found the spot. It was a tense little coal under her skin. “Please tell me if I hurt you,” he murmured apologetically, and he shifted back to her spine. “I am going to adjust the bones now - you have had this done before, yes?” He thought she must have, given the position she’d assumed._ _

__“Yes.” Nesila, like her mother before her, had been a scrapper, and the alienage healers had grown used to her antics when she was young. She’d had adjustments done on many occasions, usually after tackling some offender or another to the ground._ _

__He smoothed his hands over her shoulders - that was just to feel her skin again, truth be told - and then cupped one hand over the other, lacing his fingers together. He found the spot at her backbone that aligned with the knot, and with the heel of his hand, made a quick downward jabbing motion._ _

__The satisfying crackle and immediate rush of pleasure that followed dragged a decidedly sexual groan out of her. She took a breath, then another, and then turned her head to face the other side. The soreness was still there, but it was faint, and it didn't have that insistent catch anymore. He’d done it, and now it just had to fade away on its own. “Oh. Gods. Zevran, thank you.”_ _

__Zevran had, by now, very carefully lifted himself from her thighs. “You’re always welcome,” he murmured, voice a little strained. He wished he could convey to her just how welcome she was - to him, to anything he could offer, at any time. His hands, his blade, his mouth… oh, she did not know how deeply her fire had claimed him._ _

__The massage was now over, he supposed with a deep disappointment, but she was not moving. So he stayed there above her, one hand braced on the pallet beside her, the other tracing lazy circles over her back. It did help with the relaxation, of course, but he just needed to touch her, just needed to bask a moment longer in the heat she radiated._ _

__It took a few minutes to calm his desire, and at last, his heart stopped pounding. Just as he was about to ask her if she was all right, he heard the softest of delicate snores._ _

__Zevran had to stifle a chuckle. It was work well done, he realized, to take her from tense and unhappy to half-naked and asleep - and his breeches still on! - though it made him a bit sad to leave her. He shifted off to one side to drag her furs over her, and then he slipped from her tent to kick dirt over the waning campfire._ _

__The moon had moved across the sky by the time Nesila awoke. She lay warm under her furs, and, turning over, she saw that Zevran had left. Her neck was much better._ _

__As she sat up to tug her tunic over her head, she thought of the time he’d taken with her. The elaborate tea service, the massage, his sorcerous hands… they brought her unbidden back to that night. It had been passionate, of course, and she had not been surprised, but beneath that, there had been tenderness. He didn't just want her; he cared for her, and she realized it must hurt him constantly to see her carry on as though nothing had happened._ _

__Yet here he was, here for her. Every day. Zevran._ _

__He awakened to the sound of rustling outside his tent as someone opened the flap. His hand closed on the dagger above his pillow, then relaxed immediately as he saw that it was Nesila crawling in._ _

__She said nothing, simply laid down beside him. Her eyes glittered in the cold sliver of moonlight from the tent’s opening, taking in his sleepy face, the lack of questions in his own eyes. Of course he simply accepted that she was here; she supposed she could have done nearly anything to him and he would have welcomed it._ _

__Nesila reached out to touch his chest, wondering at herself for a moment before she let it go. She scooted closer. Without hesitation, he opened his furs and wrapped her in his arms. Her head rested comfortably on his shoulder, her breaths matching his, and she buried her face in his neck._ _

__The heat of her exhalations against his skin brought Zevran absolute joy. Nesila lay in his arms, at ease, and as he pressed a single, soft kiss to her forehead, he realized exactly how fortunate he was. He had earned her trust, and that was the highest prize his Warden could offer._ _

__\- End -_ _

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and critiques are loved. Thank you in advance.


End file.
